tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28507671Wed, 07 Dec 2016 11:20:04 +0000Sunday scribblingspoetry thursdayPoefusionNYC 2008a Veteran's taleOne deep breathwordless WednesdayWriter's Island.3WWChangeChristmasMemorial DayVillanelleday after thanksgivingmonday muralpoetrypoliticstraditions1/2 marathon10 Fitch2008Albany NYC theater foodApril fools dayCrystal July 2008Daffodils Magpie Tales #7DeathDisney conference anesthesiaFather's day 6-17-07Grandpa WaltonMag # 27 rain in the morning. plumbingOne Deep BreatheRxSusan Glaspell's "Trifles"TomatoesViet Nambirthdayscommon colddaily prompts for nat'l poetry monthdeath and dyingdoing the dishes by hand. 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SOARINdaily updatedarkestdawnday 2 Merrickville Maldova Gad's Hall Millisle B n B black squirrelday 2 of the girls visitday 3 New Mexico acclimatization for Philmontday before empty-nest.day one in Panama sunrise over the pacific.decisionsdelayeddesideratadinner and hail stormdiscombobulateddiscombobulationdistantdistractionsdon't put off 'til tomorrow....don't say nothing at all."?doyou want to know when you're going to die?econoic bailout Folghumeconomic bailoutedgeelection day 2008election day 2010elevatorselusive temptress sleepempire state collegeempty-mindedexercisefabonnicifairweather friendsfairytales and legend.fall colorfamilyfamily Augustfantasyfather's day 2009fatiguefeb 2009ferociousfetus'fibonaccifictionfire crackersfire departmentfirst day of granddaughter's vacation.fishngflag day 2009flight SNAFUfocusfogfreezing rainfrench grenadiersfriday the thirteenthfrozen river mistfull moongarage door incident.garden friendsgarden harvest 2009garden toadgas chambergeneologygiant elfglass question tokenglimpse of autumngloves and long time friendsglureongoodmorning assgoodmorning coffeegrand childrengrand daughtersgrandchildrengranddaughter's vacationgranddaughters july 2008grandma and grandpagulliblehailey and crystal day 2haircuthandbook 2011happenstanceharbinger of spring.harbingers of springhistorical society.home again finneganhornworm Joehouses with geneshughump dayiTrulli'sidentityillusionimaginationin the blink of an eyein the present Momin the present momentin the snowincongruityirrational thinking.jfk anniversaryjokesjournal entry 7just another routine day.kayakingkite flight.kumquatslabor Kristy Sophialabor day 2010last night in NYlast promptlast week new venueleaving the riverleke effect stormlemonadeles Halleslet it belife and deathlimericklocum weekendloquacious musingslost luggagelovelune formlustmag #107mag #110mag 108mag 34 willard james Nina larocque fire kerosene lampsmagpie #80 cockscombmagpie 111magpie 12magpie 13 glass eye poetrymagpie 17magpie 20 toothbrushmagpie 26 Sunday morning observationsmagpie 29magpie 32magpie 33 scent smell fragrance aromamagpie 38 cemeteriesmagpie 39magpie 47 akimbomagpie 48magpie 49magpie 52magpie 53magpie 63 kaleidascopemagpie 65 St. Francismagpie 67magpie 78magpie Christmasmagpie tales 10 TIME readingmagpie tales 4 Hemmingway white elephantsmake believemaking of a veteranmathematicsmayor.mechanical vs hand operatedmeditationmelangememememoriesmenage a troismerlinmiscellaneousmissed news storiesmisty morning ghost shipmoldermoneymontreal marche la villette table d'hote Toulouse Damienmorning mistsmorning routinemorristown windmillmotel musingsmother's day 10 Fitch 2007mother's day week end 2010mothersday 2007mozzlemtg. 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Basta'sthinking outloudthoughts from my daily zen calender.time flies life is short.time sure flys.time to leave.tonsilstrainingtraining for adirondak 90 milertrashtriathelonunderstoodunraveluphillupick blueberiesvalentine's dayverbosityveteran's day 2009 rememberance dayvirginityvisit to Josh and Michell's Jan 2011votivewalmart tourquoisewater meterswear your toque to work dayweather vagaries and possums.weekendweekend plans 8 14 09 Shannon's weedingweekends and memorieswhat the heck. no tomorrowwhen I was your agewhen will they ever learnwildlife in the villagewisheswk49wordless wednesday pileated woodpeckerwriter's blocwriter's island The strangerwriters Island message in a bottle.writers blockunder the microscopehttp://pciyrtpy.blogspot.com/noreply@blogger.com (rel)Blogger1175125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28507671.post-1176793024134565514Mon, 26 Sep 2016 08:49:00 +00002016-09-26T04:49:26.672-04:00memoir<div class="text_exposed_root text_exposed" id="id_57e8d82b7c2e99a53420265">The midnight blue sky<br /> Over Dansville is filled <br /> With stars tonight.<br /> And airplanes.<br /><span class="text_exposed_hide">...</span><div class="text_exposed_show"> He died twenty years<br /> Before I was born;<br /> John Noel, <br /> My great grandfather.<br /> I never knew him<br /> Only about him.<br /> I only saw him once,<br /> When I was 7.<br /><br />Seven is just a guess.<br />I was a youngster laying on Aunt Nellie's couch.<br />Perhaps I was asleep, but if so, I was awake in my Dream.<br />I saw a man get out of a car.&nbsp; It was an old car, maybe Uncle Ed's.<br />I can still see it in my mind's eye; black 4 door, like a 1920's style 4 door.<br />Whatever, It didn't seem out of place.<br />The man was wearing a calf length dark gray&nbsp;overcoat and a felt&nbsp;hat; one of those hats&nbsp; that I always see Humphrey Bogart wear in some of his movies.<br />Strange, he didn't come up the front steps but walked down the 12 inch wide walk at the side of the house&nbsp;to the small porch leading to the door opening into the dining room.&nbsp; Strange because no one ever used that door as long as I remember.<br />Aunt Nellie met him there and as they talked, I couldn't make out what the were saying, I knew it was her father, John Noel.<br />I don't remember him leaving, but when Aunt Nellie came into the living room where I was on the couch, I asked her "who was that?"<br />"Who are you talking about?"<br />"That man who came in through the&nbsp;side door."<br />She stared at me with a puzzled look on her face, and said nothing except to ask, would you like something to eat.<br /><br />A dream?&nbsp; Perhaps, but still it's a memory that stayed with me all these 60 plus years.<br />I've replayed that incident innumerable times and have decided it must have some significance, even if I can't say what that might be.<br /><br />John Noel was a Civil war Veteran,&nbsp; I think he knew I'd be going to Viet Nam in 10 years and maybe he came to his last home just to let me know he was real and not just a story told when people asked about the Civil war discharge enlargement framed and hanging over Uncle Ed's chair in the Living room.<br /><br />He enlisted, volunteered, in the army for the civil war, against his parents wishes when he was 17, just like I would enlist and volunteer to go to Viet Nam.<br /><br />History repeats itself.&nbsp; An old adage that as proven itself time and again.&nbsp; I don't know John Noels story, but I like to think I do know it through my own experience.</div></div>http://pciyrtpy.blogspot.com/2016/09/memoir.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (rel)0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28507671.post-5911709832849830499Mon, 05 Sep 2016 23:08:00 +00002016-09-05T19:12:03.998-04:00<span aria-live="polite" class="fbPhotosPhotoCaption" data-ft="{&quot;tn&quot;:&quot;K&quot;}" id="fbPhotoSnowliftCaption" tabindex="0"><span class="hasCaption"></span></span><div class="text_exposed_root text_exposed" id="id_57cdf995747c20f84007102"><span aria-live="polite" class="fbPhotosPhotoCaption" data-ft="{&quot;tn&quot;:&quot;K&quot;}" id="fbPhotoSnowliftCaption" tabindex="0"><span class="hasCaption">September floats in quietly </span></span><br /><span aria-live="polite" class="fbPhotosPhotoCaption" data-ft="{&quot;tn&quot;:&quot;K&quot;}" id="fbPhotoSnowliftCaption" tabindex="0"><span class="hasCaption">While steamy days of summer</span></span><br /><span aria-live="polite" class="fbPhotosPhotoCaption" data-ft="{&quot;tn&quot;:&quot;K&quot;}" id="fbPhotoSnowliftCaption" tabindex="0"><span class="hasCaption">Evaporate from the placid river.</span></span><br /><span aria-live="polite" class="fbPhotosPhotoCaption" data-ft="{&quot;tn&quot;:&quot;K&quot;}" id="fbPhotoSnowliftCaption" tabindex="0"><span class="hasCaption">Forlorn foghorns warn, unseen;</span></span><br /><span aria-live="polite" class="fbPhotosPhotoCaption" data-ft="{&quot;tn&quot;:&quot;K&quot;}" id="fbPhotoSnowliftCaption" tabindex="0"><span class="hasCaption">Lonely trains wooo wooo their passing.<span class="text_exposed_hide">...</span><span class="text_exposed_show"><br /> A gull screeches, calling; her, me, who?<br /><br /> The morning meditates, so do I.<br /> Watching river fog rise and kiss the sky--- <br /> The rising sun blinks.</span><span class="text_exposed_hide"> </span></span></span></div><span aria-live="polite" class="fbPhotosPhotoCaption" data-ft="{&quot;tn&quot;:&quot;K&quot;}" id="fbPhotoSnowliftCaption" tabindex="0"><span class="hasCaption"></span></span><span class="fbPhotoTagList hidden_elem" id="fbPhotoSnowliftTagList"></span><br /><div class="pts fbPhotoProductsTagList" id="fbPhotoSnowliftProductsTagList"></div>http://pciyrtpy.blogspot.com/2016/09/september-floats-in-quietly-while.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (rel)0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28507671.post-2440074456245487934Tue, 23 Aug 2016 10:03:00 +00002016-08-23T06:03:09.137-04:00For me, nothing brings back memories better than music.<br /> Listening to Elvis this morning I remember:<br /> Riding my Schwin down Oak St.<br /> I was 11,<span class="text_exposed_hide">...</span><span class="text_exposed_show"><br /> Listening to "Love me tender"<br /> And thinking about my first real girl friend,<br /> Judy Smith<br /> From Hornell, NY.<br /> Her family moved in to a new<br /> 4 site trailer park<br /> Across the street from our place.<br /> Her dad moved them here<br /> While he worked on the<br /> St. Lawrence Seaway.<br /> I memorized "Love me tender, and<br /> "You Ain't Nothing But A Hound Dog,"<br /> And probably every subsequent Elvis song<br /> Thereafter.<br /> Judy returned, with her family, to Hornel<br /> After a year;<br /> Nearly broke my heart.<br /> 'Til I met Dort Kiah<br /> At confirmation practice<br /> In Notre Dame church<br /> On Ford Ave.</span><br /><div class="text_exposed_show"> Thanks Elvis,<br /> For the memories!</div>http://pciyrtpy.blogspot.com/2016/08/for-me-nothing-brings-back-memories.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (rel)2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28507671.post-75643149088784945Wed, 20 Jul 2016 20:26:00 +00002016-07-20T16:26:07.912-04:00Morning spinEvery morning we arise<br />Lets spin the wheel<br />Of another's demise.<br /><br />It's the most popular<br />Pastime<br />In the world today;<br />Spinning the wheel of hate; yay.<br /><br />You hate Hillary, I'll hate Trump.<br />Every member of congress we'll dump.<br /><br />Let's hate the ref, the other team,<br />They must be blind we'll rant and&nbsp;scream.<br /><br />If you're different from me<br />in any way,<br />You don't deserve the time of day.<br /><br />We love to hate and hate to love.<br />We turn our backs on the Lord above.<br /><br />With all our righteous indignation,<br />We put ourselves above all creation<br /><br />There is no place for civil discourse.<br />Make up history, ignore the facts,<br />Perpetuate lies with violent acts.<br /><br />A divided house will surely fall,<br />Whether on not we build a wall.<br /><br />So if you'd like to reunite,<br />Put hate's wheel away tonight.<br />Arise tomorrow with love in your heart,<br />Good change will come when we start.<br /><br />Seeing each other as human not race,<br />to feel another's pain is no disgrace.<br /><br />In the morn, if you should awake,<br />Spin the wheel of love...<br />Take my hand and meet our fate.http://pciyrtpy.blogspot.com/2016/07/morning-spin.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (rel)2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28507671.post-4039998586099587485Sun, 10 Jul 2016 11:56:00 +00002016-07-10T07:56:49.915-04:00Vengeful nationDecry and pray,<br />Pray some more.<br />Point a finger of nay<br />At the blaming roar.<br /><br />Anger, hate, recrimination,<br />Never right, always wrong.<br />Vengeful heart, ungrateful nation<br />Feeds the freedom of the throng.<br /><br />Behavior, good and bad<br />Perpetuates itself.<br />Righteous are we in indignation;<br />Not me, but you must change,<br />If ever peace will reign.<br /><br />The only change you can evoke<br />Is in your heart, and actions spoke.http://pciyrtpy.blogspot.com/2016/07/vengeful-nation.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (rel)1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28507671.post-8089001301205283043Tue, 05 Jul 2016 21:03:00 +00002016-07-05T17:03:05.012-04:00FBI gives Clinton a passFBI announcement<br /><br />This afternoon FBI Director James Comey announced that their investigation of Hillary Clinton's email scandal found her guilty. &nbsp;Then he gave America a two handed middle finger by saying they will not recommend indictment or prosecution. &nbsp;This on the day after America celebrated the 240th anniversary of our Declaration of Independence.<br /><br />In so doing he bestowed the title of "Don" Clinton to the democrat nominee for president . &nbsp;She is now the titular head of the American political mafia. When her consigliere ,blow-job Willie, unabashedly met privately, in public, with Attorney General Loretta Lynch the message was loud and clear: "fuck you America, how do you like me now. &nbsp;There is no longer any attempt for the "ruling class" to try and appear honest, and trust worthy.<br /><br />I suspect that,to insure HRC's election gets announced like a royal coronation, they and their army of minions orchestrated Donald Trump's rise to the Republican nomination. &nbsp;How else could such a political buffoon become the nominee over so many (16) better qualified candidates. &nbsp;They are well aware of American's apathy and the disgruntled voters anger at the political elite. &nbsp;Let's play into that they thought and voila; Donald Trump is running for president.<br /><br />I see a faint glimmer of hope: if FBI Comey's announcement spurs the apathetic to action, then what a enormous knuckle sandwich the voters can deal to Clinton by actually electing Trump. It would be the crushing indictment to her ego that she has so deservedly earned.http://pciyrtpy.blogspot.com/2016/07/fbi-gives-clinton-pass.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (rel)1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28507671.post-2118865697312915955Sun, 15 May 2016 21:10:00 +00002016-05-15T17:10:13.201-04:00there are givers and there are takers<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Umq7C3kBtCc/VzjlRBRwcTI/AAAAAAAAQ-E/F7VWJSgaTIcqaRXXBwMLTEcLtcud8LLNQCLcB/s1600/squirrelandfeeder.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Umq7C3kBtCc/VzjlRBRwcTI/AAAAAAAAQ-E/F7VWJSgaTIcqaRXXBwMLTEcLtcud8LLNQCLcB/s320/squirrelandfeeder.jpg" width="180" /></a></div><br />I love to hate the greedy, voracious, comical, agile, obstreperous grey squirrels that come to the feeders we provide for them.<br /><br />We also feed the birds, a wide variety of birds; cardinals, blue jays, grackles, doves, gold and purple finches, rose breasted grosbeaks, Baltimore Orioles, various sparrows, nuthatches, black capped chickadees, Robins, and, of course the chipmunk who cleans up any mess left on the ground.<br /><br />Even though we provide a feeder specifically for the squirrels, they think every feeder is theirs to empty. And with their unparalleled appetites, they never stop eating and raiding until all the feeders are empty.&nbsp; I understand survival of the fittest, and it's there to see with the birds too.&nbsp; But the aggressive grey warriors are so intimidating to the birds they make otherwise raucous Jay's and grackles seem adorable.&nbsp; Well maybe not adorable but they gain my sympathy when appearing as the underdogs.&nbsp; Plus I think blue jays are beautiful.<br /><br />Having resorted to putting up squirrel proof feeders we now get to enjoy the squirrel's frustrating antics trying to access those feeders. http://pciyrtpy.blogspot.com/2016/05/there-are-givers-and-there-are-takers.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (rel)1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28507671.post-111596888984069255Mon, 09 May 2016 08:27:00 +00002016-05-09T04:27:26.449-04:00When your mind is all abuzz<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1Eh8T4uFbhs/VzA5QfEFxRI/AAAAAAAAQ9c/tlzWqIUpjzYszUJL0d2Xgtjwob-FLy0bACLcB/s1600/musicradio.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="175" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-1Eh8T4uFbhs/VzA5QfEFxRI/AAAAAAAAQ9c/tlzWqIUpjzYszUJL0d2Xgtjwob-FLy0bACLcB/s320/musicradio.png" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">Google photo</span></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;"></span>&nbsp;</div>Mind all abuzz with disconnected thoughts that give you a floundering feeling of uneasiness?&nbsp; I find myself in this state all too often; it's disconcerting to say the least.&nbsp; I feel like I'm drowning.<br /><br />What to do, what to do?<br /><br />Not always, but too often this happens to me when I awaken after of few hours sleep, usually with the remnants of a disquieting dream still lingering into consciousness.&nbsp; Usually I'll lay there, in bed, hoping to drift back to sleep, and occasionally I do.&nbsp; But when I don't, it's imperative that I get up and find some task to immerse myself in to focus my thoughts:<br />Clean the apartment.<br />do a load of laundry<br />pay some bills<br />write some drivel<br />cook breakfast<br />organize my files and or pictures<br />trim my finger nails<br />shine my shoes<br />etc., etc., etc..<br /><br />The activity that is always successful for me is listening to music, especially when driving long distances.&nbsp; You may find that ironic.&nbsp; Listening to music is a passive activity and easily gives the mind the freedom to wander.&nbsp; It's a rare song or piece of music that doesn't spur a memory for me to dwell on.&nbsp;Incongruous &nbsp;that this series of disconnected memories could erase the disquieting feeling of being adrift in a sea of unsettling&nbsp;thoughts.&nbsp; But that it does.<br /><br /><br />So every morning when&nbsp;I awaken floundering in a morass of unsettling thoughts, I arise, fix a cup of coffee, go outside, light a cigar, &nbsp;go to YouTube, and gaze at the heavens.&nbsp; Without fail the roiling sea of vexing thoughts is settled and peace and a sense of purpose prevails.<br /><br />The other day at work, one of my co-workers said that her husband doesn't like the radio on while he's driving; he finds it too distracting.&nbsp; So she reads while he drives.<br /><br />That got me to thinking; twice a week I drive for 3 hours and 40 minutes&nbsp;to and from my job.<br />And if it weren't for the radio and the music I'd be a basket case.&nbsp; At the least, road rage would prevail.&nbsp; But music, especially with <a href="http://www.siriusxm.com/" target="_blank">SiriusXM;</a>s variety&nbsp;I keep&nbsp;that <a href="https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=n00g71TySS4" target="_blank">peaceful easy feeling</a>.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-t4veNnDkG5I/VzBG7Do1_NI/AAAAAAAAQ9s/s4pS3PnFSSkHlE_MVeUMu7I9B8D8eFUqACLcB/s1600/adrift.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="183" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-t4veNnDkG5I/VzBG7Do1_NI/AAAAAAAAQ9s/s4pS3PnFSSkHlE_MVeUMu7I9B8D8eFUqACLcB/s320/adrift.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;">from this to</div><div style="text-align: center;">&nbsp;</div><div style="text-align: center;">this</div><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-U3j43mTtuQk/VzBHVyy1WqI/AAAAAAAAQ9w/Cmjilr8MGeQU3Zchq_t52f2c1UaUjVYdACLcB/s1600/adrift2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="249" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-U3j43mTtuQk/VzBHVyy1WqI/AAAAAAAAQ9w/Cmjilr8MGeQU3Zchq_t52f2c1UaUjVYdACLcB/s320/adrift2.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /><br />http://pciyrtpy.blogspot.com/2016/05/when-your-mind-is-all-abuzz.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (rel)0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28507671.post-271563850728175210Sun, 08 May 2016 12:27:00 +00002016-05-08T17:29:46.105-04:00Who's gonna pay?<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YRxcZ4otUKw/Vy-qfAh3uWI/AAAAAAAAQ84/1rV82hHDJiINWuUmmAKc5cmlOWY-i3SuQCLcB/s1600/whosgonnapay.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="360" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YRxcZ4otUKw/Vy-qfAh3uWI/AAAAAAAAQ84/1rV82hHDJiINWuUmmAKc5cmlOWY-i3SuQCLcB/s640/whosgonnapay.jpg" width="640" /></a></div><br /><br />Who's gonna pay?<br /><br />We welcomed many guests, from the north, to our Florida home during our winter retreat this year. And because of a miscommunication between Mark and I, we had an overlap on one such visit; The more the merrier, as the saying goes. <br /><br />We all, Leigh, Karen, Katie, Mark, Tammy, Diane and I, went to lunch at <br />Farlow's.<a href="http://www.farlowsonthewater.com/" target="_blank"> http://www.farlowsonthewater.com</a>. At the end of a pleasant meal and the bill is presented, Mark asks our waitress to give him the bill. Leigh insists that he wants to pay. Having been in this position many times with Leigh, I explain to Mark how upset Leigh gets when he's not allowed to pay.<br /><br />While Leigh is completing the transaction with our waitress, (a former professional body builder) he relates to us a story about a time Arnold Schwarzenegger, Wilt Chamberlain, and Andre the giant were having dinner in Mexico City after making a movie, Conan the Destroyer.<br /><br />Arnold, knowing how generous Andre was, made arrangements with their waiter to take Arnold's credit card before dinner and to not accept Andre's. When Andre discovered that Arnold had paid he went over to Arnold and picked him up out of his chair and said "I always pay!" <a href="http://grantland.com/the-triangle/the-best-bs-arnold-schwarzenegger-wilt-chamberlain-and-andre-the-giant-have-dinner/">http://grantland.com/the-triangle/the-best-bs-arnold-schwarzenegger-wilt-chamberlain-and-andre-the-giant-have-dinner/</a><br /><br />http://pciyrtpy.blogspot.com/2016/05/whos-gonna-pay.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (rel)1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28507671.post-5151703652864536197Fri, 06 May 2016 09:27:00 +00002016-05-08T17:23:26.795-04:00Starry starry nightIt's a quiet starry night, or morning; however you perceive 3 AM to be. One of those nights similar I suspect to ones Vincent gazed at more than once which in spired his painting, Starry night.<br /><br />I say quiet, yet is nature ever really quiet? &nbsp;There is no wind, no perceivable breeze or air movement. &nbsp;The earth seems to be asleep. But concentrating my eyes on heaven's light show my old ears hear the subdued sounds of mother nature's gentle breathing; frogs and toads subdued snoring, a cricket changes position moving it's violin bow legs against each other, and a muted bird chirp pricks the silence.<br /><br />These nights, though not rare, are not a common &nbsp;occurrence either. &nbsp;On nights like this where nature trumps social media hands down I revel in memories of a time decades ago when John Pauly and I lay under just such a night sky.<br /><br />We were stationed together at the 11th Evacuation hospital, Hialeah Compound, in Pusan (now Busan) South Korea. A 4 day weekend off prompted us to explore the rural countryside. &nbsp;Neither of us spoke more than a few words of Korean in a part of Korea where the locals spoke little to no English. &nbsp;With a map and the kindness of the people we encountered we bussed and hiked our way to an area near Taegu where there was a ancient Bhuddist monastery at the base of a mountain. &nbsp;We hiked up the trail behind the temple for what was probably four hours or so. &nbsp;Enough so that when we stopped to eat we were sweaty and tired. <br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-kZGu9uW5V8s/Vy-tS3j48yI/AAAAAAAAQ9E/OsgWG94yG64VG-z6dw4WNRMoGydok8ZCACLcB/s1600/johnpauly.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="258" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-kZGu9uW5V8s/Vy-tS3j48yI/AAAAAAAAQ9E/OsgWG94yG64VG-z6dw4WNRMoGydok8ZCACLcB/s320/johnpauly.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: x-small;">the pause that refreshes; John cooling off in the stream half way up the mountain.</span></div><br /><br />The trail up followed a mountain stream and our stopping to rest and eat was encouraged by the pristine pool of water under a waterfall. &nbsp;So inviting was it that we couldn't resist shedding our clothes and plunging naked into the the icy refreshment, mindful to not let any of the water get in our mouths; Army warnings of the danger of liver flukes paramount in our medical minds. <br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nhEtM_xJfQM/Vy-uKHT7YII/AAAAAAAAQ9M/_LQFqQ8VDBoDTvcWLCCXE_mQlw2S7cNHwCLcB/s1600/johnpaulywaterfall.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-nhEtM_xJfQM/Vy-uKHT7YII/AAAAAAAAQ9M/_LQFqQ8VDBoDTvcWLCCXE_mQlw2S7cNHwCLcB/s320/johnpaulywaterfall.jpg" width="214" /></a></div><br /><br />I've met my God but a few times during my journey here on our planet and this was certainly one of those times. &nbsp;A feeling of peace and serenity filled me to over flowing as I floated on my back looking up, as if in a volcano, at the cloudless, sapphire blue sky. &nbsp;In all my 70+ years I don't recall having the sense of awe and transcendence than at that time, not even in the village churches or cathedrals of France.<br /><br />Of course we chose to camp beside the pool of water for the night. We had neither sleeping bags nor tents. &nbsp;We must have spread some kind of ground cover on the pebbly shore for I was comfortable. However I couldn't sleep, John couldn't either but only a few words were exchanged between us as we gorged our senses on the beauty of a Star filled night, the lullaby of water falling over rocks and splashing into the pool water, and the belief that we were being granted a sneak preview of heaven hidden away here in this forested Eden. Like Goldilocks's porridge, the night air wasn't too hot nor too cold but just right. No mosquitos or other pesky biters found us. No street lights, no sounds whirring motors or rumbling tires, no cell phones, only us and God. I must have fallen asleep because the dawn sunlight peeking into our retreat awakened me and found me refreshed; body and soul, so to speak.<br /><br />And so tonight, sitting on my porch at 3 in the morning staring up at the uncountable stars, listening to the sounds of silence, memories helped blot out the mercury vapor lamps, the flickering blue light from late night TVs reflecting through neighbors windows and the highway rumble a half mile away letting &nbsp;me recapture that &nbsp;overwhelming sense of grace and wellbeing I'd touched so many, many nights ago.http://pciyrtpy.blogspot.com/2016/05/starry-starry-night.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (rel)4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28507671.post-2779070440092824914Tue, 03 May 2016 23:43:00 +00002016-05-03T19:49:17.003-04:00The man from Nantucket<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2yw2qvUTemQ/VykyYlyBcEI/AAAAAAAAQ8o/dD1MJkWdX4UXf9-Ml_Z-pT6Um0aLAAHGgCLcB/s1600/limerick__william_s_baring_gould_01.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="213" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-2yw2qvUTemQ/VykyYlyBcEI/AAAAAAAAQ8o/dD1MJkWdX4UXf9-Ml_Z-pT6Um0aLAAHGgCLcB/s320/limerick__william_s_baring_gould_01.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br />Lately I've been writing more poetry than prose.&nbsp; The limerick form has been creeping in more and more even as I practice penning sonnet.&nbsp; And that reminds me of a story.&nbsp; If you've heard it I'm&nbsp; sorry, but I'm sure I've never written it here.<br /><br />Years ago, I've been doing this gig as an anesthetist for a lot of years so I'm entitled to start with "years ago,"&nbsp; before political correctness and perceived sexual harassment&nbsp;made a travesty of human interactions, I routinely had student nurses come to my spot at the head of the OR bed to "observe" a surgical operation.&nbsp; While the majority of their time was devoted to advancing their knowledge of nursing, surgery, anatomy and physiology it was also not uncommon for the conversation to take on a more colloquial tone.<br /><br />On one particular occasion, as the surgery was nearing completion, I asked a student: did you ever hear the story about the man from Nantucket?&nbsp; She demurely replied, "no, I've not heard it."<br />Feeling duty bound to widen her knowledge I recited;<br />"There once was a man from Nantucket<br />Who kept all his cash in a bucket.<br />His daughter named Nan<br />Ran off with a man,<br />And the Cash? Nan tucket."<br /><br />She&nbsp;faced me with&nbsp;a serious stare said, "that's not the way I heard it!"<br /><br />The limerick invaded my head<br />With two students at the surgical bed:<br />their minds all supple and bare<br />While watching the surgery there.<br />It was jokes I offered instead.<br /><br />http://pciyrtpy.blogspot.com/2016/05/the-man-from-nantucket.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (rel)0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28507671.post-5776196182491964549Mon, 25 Apr 2016 00:44:00 +00002016-04-25T03:19:13.449-04:00Sonnet for Crabby Appleton <div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ZcnnQ-ZSgrs/Vx1qPe_KLeI/AAAAAAAAQ8M/BVVcLQEHa8YQodNvEGZ2dl9cY5GHxY7XgCLcB/s1600/crabby%2Bappleton.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ZcnnQ-ZSgrs/Vx1qPe_KLeI/AAAAAAAAQ8M/BVVcLQEHa8YQodNvEGZ2dl9cY5GHxY7XgCLcB/s1600/crabby%2Bappleton.jpg" /></a></div><br />Crabby Appleton,, the old man next door,<br />Mister Keeler was his name; I'm not sure.<br />He tormented Jeff, or other way round?<br />When into his yard li'l Jeffrey would bound<br />Like Tom Terrific and faithful Manfred,<br />Keeler would appear, with his face all red<br />Yelling and spewing; you, get the hell home.<br />Jeff kept going, because he loved to roam.<br />Then he'd come home with an ear to ear grin; <br />I Pissed Crabby Appleton off again.<br />Poor little Jeff, with a heart of pure gold,<br />And crabby Keeler, crotchety and old<br />Gave each other, Perhaps you will believe;<br />They gave each other good reason to breath.http://pciyrtpy.blogspot.com/2016/04/sonnet-for-crabby-appleton.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (rel)0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28507671.post-1620576692285648830Sat, 23 Apr 2016 10:28:00 +00002016-04-24T07:27:04.601-04:00Iambic pentameterPink moon<br /><br />The full moon hiding under cloud dappled<br />Sky, winks seductively when winds pass by.<br />Listen, attentive to dove's mating cry,<br />Watches the sun rise at the eastern rim.<br />Thinking my ardor nothing more than whim.<br /><br />-------------------------------------------------------<br /><br />Dawn chorus<br /><br />As I, an enjoyer and listener<br />Of music created solely by birds,<br />Sitting on my porch as dawn's maestro<br />Conducts Spring's eternal mating warbles.<br />Ephemeral performances repeat;n<br />Anticipating new life, new beginnings.<br /><br />&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;-----------<br /><br /><br />-------------------------------------—-----------<br /><br />Hardy, bold, and brash; rhubarb sprouts by grass.<br />Brilliant green, Ruby red, portends a.. sour end.<br />Yet girls and boys, powerless to bypass,<br />With sugared palms to which a sweetness lend.<br /><br /> --------------<br /><br />Bird feeder blues<br /><br />Squirrels, buntings, finches flock to feeders,<br />Eating sunflower, thistle seed and corn.<br />Setting moon, rising sun are day's cheerleaders.<br />No feather bathing yet this icy April morn.http://pciyrtpy.blogspot.com/2016/04/iambic-pentameter.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (rel)1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28507671.post-6665266687551145876Mon, 18 Apr 2016 09:19:00 +00002016-04-18T05:19:26.507-04:00As UsualA perfect morning<br />after a quintessential Spring day<br />brings the usual<br />jumble of thoughts.<br /><br />awakened to alarm buzz<br />with satisfactory feelings<br />of eight hours sleep<br />dotted with awareness.<br /><br />Trodding to the loo,<br />fix a cup-a coffee,<br />turn on burner under oatmeal,<br />check Facebook, email.<br /><br />Clear night sky<br />Sprinkled with stars.<br />Almost full moon<br />Sinking, cloud misted, in the west.<br /><br />The morning's chill<br />A pleasant relief<br />From the welcome<br />But stifling heat of last evening.<br /><br />Focus, focus, focus<br />Commanding disconnected <br />Thoughts into orderly<br />Queue of saneness.<br /><br />Make the bed,<br />hot shower,<br />Breakfast<br />Walk to work.<br /><br />Always lurking<br />Creeping to the fore,<br />Images, thoughts<br />pleasant but distracting.<br /><br />What serendipity<br />Awaits the inexorable<br />March of time, this<br />April day.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XiA4QZqx2Y0/VxSmZH5eTgI/AAAAAAAAQ78/1uzQWaOipDAucn33C149RH7cVwRORylhQCLcB/s1600/smileMostacho.png" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="309" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XiA4QZqx2Y0/VxSmZH5eTgI/AAAAAAAAQ78/1uzQWaOipDAucn33C149RH7cVwRORylhQCLcB/s320/smileMostacho.png" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br /><br />http://pciyrtpy.blogspot.com/2016/04/as-usual.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (rel)1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28507671.post-2533801866614210794Sat, 16 Apr 2016 21:53:00 +00002016-04-16T17:53:11.309-04:00On a spring dayChuck-of-the- wood came for a visit here<br />While I ate my lunch and drank my beer.<br />When the wind my plate did blow<br />He stopped by the wall to say hello.<br /><br />When I towards him began to jog<br />He scurried away, this brown groundhog.<br />Into the woodshed he did flee<br />Safely hiding away from me.<br /><br />Returning to my bistro chair<br />Mr. Whistlepig scampered away from there.<br />I did not after him give chase,<br />Knowing I could not win the race.<br /><br />After Woody made his quick escape<br />I turned to gaze on Spring's landscape.<br />Birds twitter in trees abound,<br />While robins hop and peck the ground.<br /><br />The mister puffed his bright red breast.<br />And missus foraged to build their nest.<br />On his mind were thoughts robust;<br />To mount this chick and give her thrust.<br /><br />She of the more practical sort<br />Showed little interest in her consort.<br />Glancing up with wary eye,<br />She feigned to me of being shy.http://pciyrtpy.blogspot.com/2016/04/on-spring-day.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (rel)0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28507671.post-6266994372885823312Sun, 10 Apr 2016 22:24:00 +00002016-04-10T18:24:03.597-04:00The funeral<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Ravkx3qVz-A/VwrOMr5nfDI/AAAAAAAAQ7M/G2zpDLloT5k5cPMyTPHAhUrldTgeTgnUQ/s1600/alter%2Bboy.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Ravkx3qVz-A/VwrOMr5nfDI/AAAAAAAAQ7M/G2zpDLloT5k5cPMyTPHAhUrldTgeTgnUQ/s320/alter%2Bboy.jpg" width="179" /></a></div>Went to his funeral yesterday.<br />It was a fine affair<br />Many came, their respects to pay;<br />Nieces and nephew led us in prayer.<br /><br />The priest did well his part.<br />The speakers stuttered and paused<br />When at certain points, tears would start,<br />Grief that many memories caused.<br /><br />Birthday party, an alter boy,<br />Family portrait, a little dog.<br />His quirky smile of inner joy<br />Would stir the past, memory jog.<br /><br />He wasn't there, he'd moved on.<br />Oh, his ashes before us laid<br />With flowers, and art work he had done.<br />The soulful sounds the music made.<br /><br />The hymns he'd chosen on CD found<br />Played upon the air;<br />Amazing Grace how sweet the sound<br />Plucked at heart strings bare.<br /><br />At the finish, at the end<br />He fetched the bluebirds to the sky.<br />We followed to rainbow's bend<br />and watched his spirit fly.<br /><br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ieMZdGU4Gfo/VwrSXHVxK_I/AAAAAAAAQ7c/RK0jzWTlr8wm4nS_gyTL82ApYm3oPh1fg/s1600/bluebird%2Brainbow.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="180" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ieMZdGU4Gfo/VwrSXHVxK_I/AAAAAAAAQ7c/RK0jzWTlr8wm4nS_gyTL82ApYm3oPh1fg/s320/bluebird%2Brainbow.jpg" width="320" /></a></div><br /><br />http://pciyrtpy.blogspot.com/2016/04/the-funeral.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (rel)0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28507671.post-5808467250671657458Sat, 09 Apr 2016 22:53:00 +00002016-04-09T18:53:35.112-04:00Eulogy for Jeffrey Michael LaRock<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:WordDocument> <w:View>Normal</w:View> <w:Zoom>0</w:Zoom> <w:PunctuationKerning/> <w:ValidateAgainstSchemas/> <w:SaveIfXMLInvalid>false</w:SaveIfXMLInvalid> <w:IgnoreMixedContent>false</w:IgnoreMixedContent> <w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText>false</w:AlwaysShowPlaceholderText> <w:Compatibility> <w:BreakWrappedTables/> <w:SnapToGridInCell/> <w:WrapTextWithPunct/> <w:UseAsianBreakRules/> <w:DontGrowAutofit/> </w:Compatibility> <w:BrowserLevel>MicrosoftInternetExplorer4</w:BrowserLevel> </w:WordDocument> </xml><![endif]--><br /><!--[if gte mso 9]><xml> <w:LatentStyles DefLockedState="false" LatentStyleCount="156"> </w:LatentStyles> </xml><![endif]--><!--[if !mso]><img src="//img2.blogblog.com/img/video_object.png" style="background-color: #b2b2b2; " class="BLOGGER-object-element tr_noresize tr_placeholder" id="ieooui" data-original-id="ieooui" /> <style>st1\:*{behavior:url(#ieooui) } </style> <![endif]--><!--[if gte mso 10]> <style> /* Style Definitions */ table.MsoNormalTable {mso-style-name:"Table Normal"; mso-tstyle-rowband-size:0; mso-tstyle-colband-size:0; mso-style-noshow:yes; mso-style-parent:""; mso-padding-alt:0in 5.4pt 0in 5.4pt; mso-para-margin:0in; mso-para-margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:10.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ansi-language:#0400; mso-fareast-language:#0400; mso-bidi-language:#0400;} </style> <![endif]--> <br /><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt;">Today we’re here to bid a final farewell to Jeffery Michael LaRock.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt;">Thank you all for coming.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt;">I’m going to give you a thumbnail sketch of the man I knew as a brother.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt;">Others, especially our sister Julie, who grew up and shared a childhood with Jeff, that I did not, may well portray him somewhat differently.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt;">He loved his family; they were the emeralds in his heart.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt;">Who was Jeff?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt;">Obviously he was a son, albeit with a conflicted and bittersweet relationship with his parents.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt;">He was a brother, a nephew, alter boy, and brother-in-law.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt;">He was a dad; Sean you are the one thing in his life that he was most proud of.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt;">He was an uncle; he loved you and savored his relationships with each of you, always asking about how you all were doing.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt;">He was a nurse, a veteran, a paramedic, an artist, a photographer, a commiserator, and always a friend.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt;">He liked antiques, Samurai swords and his solace, music.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; </span>------------</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt;">He wasn’t an alter boy all his life…….</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt;">He was a rascal, an alcoholic, a drug abuser, and he loved women.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt;">Intertwined with these roles and qualities he was foremost kind and compassionate.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Jeff had what grandpa Walton described as “a giving heart.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; </span>He quit a job as an apartment manager in Tennessee because he couldn’t stand to evict a tenant for not paying their rent.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; </span>----------------------------------------</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt;">I met Jeffrey Michael LaRock in the last weeks of June, 1955 when my mother brought him home from the hospital.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I was 9 years old, almost 10.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I was unimpressed.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Who was this interloper, this usurper for the love of mom, dad, aunt Nellie and uncle Ed?</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt;">Basically, I was indifferent to his existence.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>But he was not indifferent to mine.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>He did everything he could to win my love and affection.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; </span>When Jeff was 3, or no older than 4, he succeeded in getting my undivided attention.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt;">I had an Ogdensburg Journal newspaper delivery route at that time.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I kept the money I collected from my customers in a dingy white drawstring canvas bag.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>One day I went to retrieve my bag of money from where I’d set it, only to discover it was missing.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt;">I asked mom if she’d moved it, but she was clueless.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>I searched and searched until mom, looking out the kitchen window into the backyard yelled something to the effect; “what’s all that paper littering the yard.”</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt;">I went to investigate. <span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;</span>I found my brother, the empty money bag, and dollar bills, some whole, some torn, fluttering along the grass in the breeze.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt;">My brother, Jeffery Michael, without malice, was enjoying tossing those green pieces of paper in the air and watching them float on the wind.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt;">Over the years, Jeff and I would meet for breakfast at the Donut King restaurant here in the “Burg, just the two of us.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>We would bare our souls, reminisce about old times and philosophize about life and current happenings in our lives.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt;">I relish those times because Jeff made it easy for complete honesty between us on any topic; personal and otherwise; he was nonjudgmental.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>It was always he who bent over backwards to make us best friends.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt;">We’re going to miss Jeff.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>His presence in our lives has given us precious memories.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt;">Thank you, Trish and Julie, for taking such good care of Jeff.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>Your love, caring and support are the reason we were able to share and enjoy so many more years of his life.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt;">Thank you, his AA friends, for keeping him sober these past twenty years.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; </span>Jeff loved to tell a joke and ribald tales, and as a good story teller, he had that innate sense of timing that’s crucial to making you laugh ‘til you’d cry. </span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt;"><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; </span>He liked nothing better than to call me, out of the blue, to share a joke or story; deriving pleasure from nothing more than hearing me laugh ‘til I couldn’t catch my breath.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">&nbsp; </span>And when I’d stopped laughing, just before he’d hang up he’d say;</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><span style="font-size: 16.0pt;">I love Robert, talk to you soon.</span></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div>http://pciyrtpy.blogspot.com/2016/04/eulogy-for-jeffrey-michael-larock.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (rel)1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28507671.post-3034792174115637264Wed, 06 Apr 2016 10:07:00 +00002016-04-06T06:07:35.692-04:00NaPoWriMo #6There once was a boy from Oak Street<br /> Who'd love everyone he would meet.<br /> He said , with a smile, <br /> I'll be leaving in awhile,<br /> and when you follow we'll meet.http://pciyrtpy.blogspot.com/2016/04/napowrimo-6.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (rel)0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28507671.post-467987329144215807Tue, 05 Apr 2016 08:34:00 +00002016-04-05T04:34:15.652-04:00NaPoWriMo #5<br /><br />12 frigid degrees<br />&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;On an April morn.<br />Robins flit about<br />&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;With open scorn.<br /><br />Earth covered with<br />&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Blanket white;<br />Where are the worms to eat?<br />&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Frozen out of site.<br /><br />Feathers fluffed, they<br />&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;Hop and cheep,<br />We should have stayed in Florida<br />&nbsp; &nbsp; &nbsp;For another week!http://pciyrtpy.blogspot.com/2016/04/napowrimo-5.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (rel)0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28507671.post-2436737896631489430Mon, 04 Apr 2016 09:06:00 +00002016-04-04T05:06:26.060-04:00NaPoWriMo #4<div data-block="true" data-editor="7ect2" data-offset-key="34msj-0-0"><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="34msj-0-0"><span data-offset-key="34msj-0-0"><span data-text="true">Day 4 of NaPoWriMo</span></span></div></div><div data-block="true" data-editor="7ect2" data-offset-key="8mhi7-0-0"><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="8mhi7-0-0"><span data-offset-key="8mhi7-0-0"><span data-text="true"></span></span></div></div><div data-block="true" data-editor="7ect2" data-offset-key="12heb-0-0"><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="12heb-0-0"><span data-offset-key="12heb-0-0"><span data-text="true">Winter is not done</span></span></div></div><div data-block="true" data-editor="7ect2" data-offset-key="edq01-0-0"><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="edq01-0-0"><span data-offset-key="edq01-0-0"><span data-text="true"> &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; with us yet.</span></span></div></div><div data-block="true" data-editor="7ect2" data-offset-key="3be7r-0-0"><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="3be7r-0-0"><span data-offset-key="3be7r-0-0"><span data-text="true">A little taste of Spring,</span></span></div></div><div data-block="true" data-editor="7ect2" data-offset-key="1q35r-0-0"><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="1q35r-0-0"><span data-offset-key="1q35r-0-0"><span data-text="true"> &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; is all you get.</span></span></div></div><div data-block="true" data-editor="7ect2" data-offset-key="6mt6g-0-0"><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="6mt6g-0-0"><span data-offset-key="6mt6g-0-0"><span data-text="true"></span></span></div></div><div data-block="true" data-editor="7ect2" data-offset-key="a89m4-0-0"><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="a89m4-0-0"><span data-offset-key="a89m4-0-0"><span data-text="true">In the night </span></span></div></div><div data-block="true" data-editor="7ect2" data-offset-key="8j4h6-0-0"><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="8j4h6-0-0"><span data-offset-key="8j4h6-0-0"><span data-text="true"> &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; by street light's glow</span></span></div></div><div data-block="true" data-editor="7ect2" data-offset-key="9l1f5-0-0"><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="9l1f5-0-0"><span data-offset-key="9l1f5-0-0"><span data-text="true">the crocuses are buried;</span></span></div></div><div data-block="true" data-editor="7ect2" data-offset-key="8ecgs-0-0"><div class="_1mf _1mj" data-offset-key="8ecgs-0-0"><span data-offset-key="8ecgs-0-0"><span data-text="true"> &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; a last gasp? of snow.</span></span></div></div>http://pciyrtpy.blogspot.com/2016/04/napowrimo-4.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (rel)0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28507671.post-5316722872241426480Sun, 03 Apr 2016 15:46:00 +00002016-04-03T11:46:52.712-04:00NaPoWriMo 2016<div class="text_exposed_root text_exposed" id="id_57013902246517832530647">Poetry<br /> Like the garden untended<br /> Gets hidden<br /> In the weeds of<br /> &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Words.<br /><br /><span class="text_exposed_hide"></span><div class="text_exposed_show"> Words<br /> Conveyors of thought<br /> Belie too often <br /> The message of the <br /> &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Heart<br /><br /> Heart<br /> Laid bare to cultivation <br /> Spills forth<br /> A natural profusion of<br /> &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Emotion<br /><br /> Emotion<br /> Tended with care<br /> Watered from the eyes<br /> Openly expressed in<br /> &nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp;&nbsp; Verse.</div></div>http://pciyrtpy.blogspot.com/2016/04/napowrimo-2016.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (rel)0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28507671.post-222163189879983137Fri, 01 Apr 2016 11:34:00 +00002016-04-02T08:11:35.943-04:00Knocking on heaven's door<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dBW6_WmZISQ/Vv-u5g3WCLI/AAAAAAAAQ6g/J0LWvcWqKUQee8todx03w4nLJ1_IEgeFw/s1600/knocking_on_heaven__s_door_by_slimbdf.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-dBW6_WmZISQ/Vv-u5g3WCLI/AAAAAAAAQ6g/J0LWvcWqKUQee8todx03w4nLJ1_IEgeFw/s320/knocking_on_heaven__s_door_by_slimbdf.jpg" /></a></div>31 March 2016<br /><br />Returning home after a 3 month hiatus, vacation, foray into semi-retirement, I'm taking a short, 47 mile, trip to visit my, 10 years, younger brother who's knocking on heavens door.<br /><br />How appropriate; a chilling spring rain for a visit to say good-bye.<br />After arriving in Florida we received an email informing us that my brother was indeed dying.&nbsp;I wrote a note of goodbye to my brother saying farewell; not knowing if he would still be among the living when I returned. He is and now I'm making a visit for a face to face.<br />(<strong><em>Good morning brother,<br /> I hope this missive finds you still here in our earthly sphere!<br /> After Diane read me your email last night I knew I had to recognize the elephant in the room. &nbsp;Even after Julie's phone call last week , I continued to delude myself; believing that you would pull another rabbit out of the hat like you've done before. &nbsp;You quit drugs and booze, beat hep-c, and put your life back together.<br /><br /> If I'm good at anything, it's ignoring unpleasant realities, usually 'til it's too late. &nbsp;Julie does know your dying and she tried to get me to accept the fact when she recalled her visit with you and Trish.<br /><br /> Wishing it weren't so is no longer an option. &nbsp;Being a selfish son-of-a-bitch, I've never been good at feeling love. &nbsp;You, on the other hand, are a compassionate and loving soul. &nbsp;You have been since I've known you. &nbsp;And that's a long long time.<br /><br /> Jeffrey, I wish for you peace of mind and comfort as you hurry to the front of the check-out line. I love you as much as I'm capable of loving anyone, and I'm going to miss you.<br /> You're a bright and shining star in my life, and if there is an afterlife, I know you'll find it and be a star there too; entertaining the multitudes. &nbsp;Be sure to tell the story of Lim and the sigmoidoscope shit storm!! LOL ;-)<br /><br />I believe we'll meet again, until we do I'll keep you memory in my heart.<br /><br /> I love you brother,<br /> Bob )</em></strong><br /><br />We have been best friends for all of his life. We both view death from the same perspective; death is a part of life. He chose to forgo the suffering of chemo and radiation for the comfort care option. So, he bought his ticket and he's just waiting for the train.<br /><br />We don't know when the train will arrive; days, weeks, or maybe months, who knows? The body is always trying to heal itself (that's how we're programmed) even as disease eats away at your days. Death eventually will win this struggle, as it always does. I may miss his boarding the train due to being away for work, but nothing has been left unsaid. Still, I'll miss him and our long talks and reminiscences.<br /><br />So on this dismal day when the earth is beginning it's annual rebirth I'll say farewell to Jeff in the Autumn of his life as he knocks on heavens door.<br /><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-f-sAHOY2E_0/Vv-23E-XreI/AAAAAAAAQ6w/4wBzHBmBuWQZfgZIDDDHYjwBx2ta_kzpw/s1600/Jeff.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-f-sAHOY2E_0/Vv-23E-XreI/AAAAAAAAQ6w/4wBzHBmBuWQZfgZIDDDHYjwBx2ta_kzpw/s320/Jeff.jpg" width="318" /></a></div><br /><br />April is national poetry writing month.<br /><br />Death lurks patiently;<br />Ticket bought,<br />Waiting for the train.http://pciyrtpy.blogspot.com/2016/04/knocking-on-heavens-door.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (rel)1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28507671.post-7108203012508853913Sat, 20 Feb 2016 14:51:00 +00002016-02-20T09:51:21.133-05:00Politics :-(When I was a youngster, believing in Tarzan, Bamba the jungle boy, Superman, and Rudolf the Rednosed reindeer, I always resented it when adults or more worldly adolescents tried to baffle me with facts trying to make me see that my beliefs were fairy tales and figments of my imagination.<br /><br />As real world experiences intruded on my fantasies I laid aside my beliefs in illusion, relegating them to idle time enjoyment, novel reading and dreams and such. <br /><br />I had no interest in politicians or politics in general. But even so, as a 17 year old I came up against real world concreteness. Having slacked of in my education responsibilities, my grades disallowed my chances of getting into college. What to do, what to do? JFK caught my attention; a smooth talking (I liked the Massachusetts accent) Navy war hero who's "ask not what your country can do for you, but what you can do for your country," caught my attention. In my still fertile flights of fancy I imagined myself as a war hero of the John Wayne, Audi Murphy, Lee Marvin, Jimmy Stewart, well you get the picture. I followed Kennedy's advice, my imagination of heroism and joined the Navy. I volunteered for duty in Vietnam; patriotism and all that. Our president and the government as well as Hollywood would never lead me astray.<br /><br />A thirty caliber jolt of reality changed my view of war and politicians for the next 53 years.<br /><br />My view of politicians, especially of the federal ilk, is that they beguile the masses with promises that even they know are undoable or downright lies. But the populace eats it up like mana from heaven. Then 4 or 8 years later they employ the same illogical thinking and gobble up the promise of hope and change once more.<br /><br />Bernie Sanders promises more socialism, a friend with whom I banter differing political viewpoints with says we already have socialism, i.e. Social security, public education, national security, infrastructure, (roads and bridges) libraries.<br /><br />My reply:<br /><br />Our government spends more on pork than on alleviating conditions for the poor and indigent.<br />The gov't giveth and the gov't taketh away.<br />Social security is in a shambles, bordering on bankruptcy.<br /><br />Gov't support (interference) in public education has been counter productive at best. <br /><br />National security; our armed forces haven't won a war since WWII ( unless you count Grenada.). The government uses the men and women in the military as pawns in a chess game, sacrificing them and still losing.<br /><br />Our infrastructure is crumbling, (highways, bridges.)<br /><br />Libraries are begging for money from their patrons because government support is dwindling.<br /><br />We are trillions of dollars in debt.<br /><br />More government in not the answer.<br />http://pciyrtpy.blogspot.com/2016/02/politics.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (rel)3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28507671.post-1099361738526260671Thu, 18 Feb 2016 20:46:00 +00002016-02-18T15:46:17.395-05:00Growing up I dug out my school report cards to find the real me in the teachers’ comments. Growing up, for as long as I remember, I created a fantasy me so as to hide from myself.http://pciyrtpy.blogspot.com/2016/02/growing-up_18.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (rel)0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-28507671.post-2668519727336651199Sat, 06 Feb 2016 16:11:00 +00002016-02-10T08:07:09.338-05:00Chance encounters or serendipity strikes again <br />Chance encounters.<br /><br />It's 8 am, give or take a few. I'm still in my pajamas, (been up since 0530)sipping coffee, listening to music and perusing Facebook. Di asks, " are we going to the farmer's market this morning?"<br />I think, has something changed since we discussed this last night? But I say, yes. It's Thursday isn't it? Sometimes, too often for my liking, I forget what day it is, especially when on vacation.<br /><br />The Englewood, Fl. Farmers market on Dearborn St. is open from 9 am 'til 2 pm on Thursdays. http://allaboutenglewood.com/farmers-market/englewood-farmers-market.html <a href="http://http://allaboutenglewood.com/farmers-market/englewood-farmers-market.html"></a><br /><br />At 9 am we slide into our '96 Buick Regal (<58,000 miles) and merge into the bumper to bumper traffic on rt. 776 (south McCall Rd,) and drive the 5 miles to Dearborn St., hoping to find a parking spot in the Vino Loco parking lot; since we will lunch here after they open at 1100. We park at Vino Loco, grab our canvas carry bags and stroll a few blocks to the area where the venders are arrayed. It's 78 degrees, the sky is clear and the sun is deepening the tan on my face and bald head. The crowd is like a carnival midway as we wind our way to our first stop; one of the three fresh baked bread stalls, and our favorite. Then it's a bumble-bee line, past the guitar player,to the end of the main thoroughfare to grab a small bag of grapefruit. Next we retrace our disjointed path, trying to avoid bumping into other oblivious shoppers, and make a left turn at the guitar man's corner to find the line, waiting at our second favorite stop; the cheese vender. We meander around checking out the other stalls, make one last stop to fill our bag with fresh veggies ending back on Dearborn St.. A glance at my new Garmin watch, while depositing our purchases in the car, informs me we have over an hour before our lunch venue opens it's doors. Making our way west on Dearborn toward the Gulf of Mexico, Diane spies the magnet lure of an antique shop. "Go on,"I say, "I'll saunter down the street, a couple of blocks, and check out the cigar shop your cousin Dale mentioned." After our usual delectable lunch at Vino Loco, http://www.vinolocowine.com, we amble a short block down the street, enjoying the, now, 80 degree sunshine with a slight breeze to make it comfortable, to sit in front of a newly opened coffee shop/espresso bar<a href="http://https://www.facebook.com/Joemaxxcoffee/"></a>. I flick my bic, suck the flame to the tip of my recently purchased Tatiana rum flavored cigar 'til it's burning on it's own. Ahhh, indulging in a few drags on my, allotted, one a week cigar, just enough to get a good nicotine hit, I suggest we go in and sample the coffee.<br /><br />"Hi,"Diane says to the man sitting 2 stools over to our left, "are you from Englewood?"<br />During the winter months the population of Englewood, if not the whole of Florida, must easily double from the influx of snowbirds like ourselves. Most of whom, at least the 672 folks we've met in the last month, are retirees or close to it. Conversation is the highlight of chance encounters and usually start up with some semblance of the questions; where are you from? How long are you here for? And so it was....<br />Meaning; do you live here year round? <br />"Yes." He replies.<br />"Do you know where the Buddhist monks are building their monastery?" She asks. "We've heard it's somewhere here near Dearborn."<br />" yes I do, he offers, they haven't built anything yet, but here, let me show you." He takes takes out his Samsung phone and brings up a map and points to a wooded area not far, he points out, from right here where we are." With his finger, he traces the route, street by street, to give us a Google eye view of where the monastery will be, and says; "it'll be a couple of years before they get it done. They've cleared a few trees, but that's it."<br />Diane explains, "we met 3 of them 2 weeks ago walking toward us right here on Dearborn."<br />"Yes, he says, they have a route they walk every day. If you Google the forest monks of Sarasota, you can go to their web site and it will show you the route they take. https://www.facebook.com/Sarasota-Forest-Monastery-705418619593963/ Amazing isn't it, he adds, doing this everyday to get your daily food?" <br />"What do you mean, we ask, blurting out our ignorance. They weren't begging when we saw them."<br />"Oh no, he says, they don't beg. People offer them food, and when their alms bowl is full they return to where they live. The food must be ready to eat, not raw or needing cooking; like say if you wanted to give them some fish, or rice and such, it must be cooked."<br />"If they haven't built their place yet, where do they live?" Diane asks.<br />"They stay in a private home." He explains where the home is located, but I'm still unsure exactly where it's located. It's nearby,I know that.<br /><br />"Where do you live?" He asks.<br />"Upstate New York."<br />"Where abouts?"<br />"On the St. Lawrence River, the Canadian border." <br />"Where abouts?<br />"Thousand islands area."<br />"Where abouts?"<br />"Morristown, New York."<br />"Is that near Watertown?"<br />"Yes, 50 miles north east of Watertown," we say.<br /><br />" Where are you from," we ask.<br />"Rochester, New York."<br />I tell him, "I work just an hour south of Rochester."<br /><br />Somehow, as the conversation progresses, we start talking about kayaking, an activity dear to my heart.<br /><br />" I've written a book about kayaking the waterways of New York", he says.<br />"Really, I say, impressed. Have you paddled the Adirondack 90 Miler."<br />"No, he says, I keep my focus on central to western New York. The Adirondacks have been well covered by other authors."<br /><br />"What's the title of your book?" Diane asks.<br />"Actually I've written 13 books about western New York; on hiking, kayaking, bicycling, snowshoeing, anything that takes you on the hidden byways and their natural treasures."<br />"What's your name?" Diane asks.<br />"He says, "just Google Rick and Sue and we'll come up."<br /><br />Later when we get back home, I did just that and it wasn't quite as easy as just searching "Rick and Sue" but eventually I was led to their books and their fascinating story. If you want to surf around the net, type in Rich and Sue Freeman, or follow this url:<br /><br /><br />http://nyfalls.com/articles/interviews/freemans/http://pciyrtpy.blogspot.com/2016/02/chance-encounters-or-serendipity.htmlnoreply@blogger.com (rel)1